


As Long as No One Finds Out

by orphean



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2020-04-06 09:08:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19059565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphean/pseuds/orphean
Summary: It happened on a Wednesday night, and it was completely by accident. After a couple of bourbons – not enough to be drunk, but enough for inhibitions to be sufficiently lowered – Trip kissed Malcolm. Malcolm, surprising both Trip and himself, answered the kiss with enough enthusiasm that further conversation was rendered unnecessary.----Trip and Malcolm start an affair, and decide to keep it quiet. It is... somewhat successful.





	As Long as No One Finds Out

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this right after watching Shuttlepod One for the first time, so this has been in the works for a year and a half or so. When I started it, I did not know there was a basketball scene in later seasons, so let's pretend that this is how Malcolm learns to play basketball.
> 
> I worked on this on and off for about three months, then left it alone for nine months, and only now came back to write the final scene, so apologies for any roughness!

It happened on a Wednesday night, and it was completely by accident. After a couple of bourbons – not enough to be drunk, but enough for inhibitions to be sufficiently lowered – Trip kissed Malcolm. Malcolm, surprising both Trip and himself, answered the kiss with enough enthusiasm that further conversation was rendered unnecessary.

'Oh,' Trip said afterwards.

'Oh, indeed.' Malcolm agreed. He was staring into the ceiling and wondered when the guilt would start to set in.

'Is this gonna be weird?' Trip's eyelashes were heavy and Malcolm wanted to kiss each of them.

'No, it'll be fine.'

They slept together, Trip's face buried in Malcolm's neck.

In the morning, Malcolm snuck back to his quarters to change into a fresh change of clothes. At breakfast, Travis joined him and told him at great length about the uneventful night on the bridge. When Trip passed them, and flashed a small, excited, nervous, smile at him, Malcolm's stomach somersaulted.

 

* * *

 

T'Pol was in the armoury, reviewing some of Malcolm's suggested improvements to the firing array. She was analysing the readouts on the screen, but she did not seem focused on her work. Malcolm knew that Vulcans were supposed to not have feelings, but she seemed distracted. Now and again, he glanced up at her from his desk where he was compiling his report of the last few days' weapons usage – all during training exercises, no casualties. Several times, he noticed her nose twitching. He returned to writing and tried not to think about Trip.

'Lieutenant Reed.' She was by his desk, fingertips pressed into the PADD she was holding. She looked troubled. 'I am aware that humans find this an improper topic to discuss, but I must. You smell.'

'I took a shower after work last night – I can't imagine it's that bad, sub-commander.' He was baffled at the comment. Then he remembered that Vulcans had an enhanced smell, and that perhaps she _was_ smelling something. She was breathing through her mouth, short inhales and exhales.

'Lieutenant, I have grown used to the individual smells of the crew of this ship – that is not necessarily my concern here. You do not smell like you. You smell like Commander Tucker. And Commander Tucker, I noticed this morning, smelt of you.' Malcolm sputtered and coughed at this, but when he was unable to think of a reply, she continued. 'Fraternisation may not be forbidden, but it is frowned upon, is it not?'

'I – I think you might be misunderstanding the situation here, T'Pol.' He was rewarded with one of her infamous raised eyebrows.

'You have engaged in sexual activity with Commander Tucker. There is no misunderstanding, Lieutenant. The human male is –' she wrinkled her nose in distaste, 'odoriferous. Does Captain Archer know?'

'No, and Captain Archer does not _need_ to know.' Malcolm stood up and stared her down. She met his eye squarely, hardly blinking. 'Please do not tell him. There is nothing to tell.'

T'Pol considered this.

'Very well.' She nodded, swallowing her objections. 'I will… stay quiet. I do expect, however, that you will not let this interfere with your work and – make sure you shower. Please.'

Malcolm hadn't expected the _please_ , but he was happy to hear it.

'Thank you, sub-commander.' She didn't return his attempt at a smile, but handed over the PADD she had been clutching.

'My analysis of your improvements. They can go ahead. Please contact the captain if you need any resources to implement these changes. Good day, lieutenant.'

Malcolm watched her leave and wondered what the hell to do now that everything had got a little bit more complicated.

 

* * *

 

'You have a minute?' Malcolm found Trip in engineering, knelt in front of the warp core. The engineer winked when he saw him and wiped his hands on his overalls.

'Sure thing. I'm about to check on the warp manifold – wanna give me a hand?'

Malcolm caught the spanner Trip threw him and followed him into the warp repair corridors. No sooner had they turned the corner to the inner linings than Trip turned and had him up against the wall, kissing him hard.

'T'Pol knows about us.' Malcolm, somehow, managed to say this between the kisses, trying to ignore Trip's hands travel up his body.

'What do you mean?' His voice drawled, confident and oh-so-American, as he nibbled on Malcolm's ear and Malcolm bit his tongue to silence a whimper.

'She said I smelled of you. And you of me.' He grabbed Trip's shoulder and pushed him off him, because having his body on him made it _very_ hard to concentrate.

'When you say she said I smelled of _you_ , did she mean?' Trip made a gesture, lewd and (frustratingly, furiously) attractive.

'I didn't ask. She didn't say. She said men are smelly.' Malcolm took a step away when Trip moved forward, going in for another kiss.

'She must be a mine of gossip, can you imagine?' Trip caught his hand and pulled him to him again, an arm wrapped around his waist. Malcolm tried to remember that, one, he was annoyed with him, and two, they were almost in public.

'I'm not interested in being gossip.'

'Is that it, then?' There was an edge to his voice now. 'You're embarrassed that we did it and you're worried people would judge you? A nice boy like you, slumming it with me?'

'No, that's –' Malcolm realised he didn't know _what_ he was worried about, but he knew for a fact that he most definitely _was_ worried. 'But we have to be smart, Charles.'

Trip's exhale was loud in his ear, and he could almost feel the smirk on his face. Malcolm wondered what someone — anyone – would say if they walked in on them. _Would_ they judge them? A pipe was digging into his back and when he shifted Trip's body was even closer.

'I like how you say my name.' Trip – and the name Charles hovered at the back of Malcolm's mind, as it always did, because _Trip_ was such an American, such a dumb, name for a person – murmured, planting kisses down his face.

'Didn't you need help with the warp manifold?' Malcolm kept being distracted by Trip's fingers against his uniform, Trip's mouth on his skin, how incredible Trip's sheer physicality was. He looked at him, eyes heavy and dark (and Malcolm felt a little proud he did this to him), and scrunched up his nose.

'You're no fun.' Trip stepped away, the step and a half possible in this space. 'Yeah, I do need help.'

They knelt next to each other while they worked, passing tools and helping each other. Malcolm shivered every time their hands brushed and he thought Trip did, too.

 

* * *

 

Jonathan poured two measures of bourbon and handed one of the glasses to Trip.

'How's work coming along?'

'It's going, for sure. Feels like every time I put out a fire there's another three popping up somewhere else. Oh, don't worry, they're usually not _real_ fires.' Trip laughed at Jon's worried face. He sipped his whiskey. 'You don't got any ice?'

'The ice machine's broken – that's another thing to put on your list. It's lukewarm or nothing, Trip.'

The whiskey topped up, their conversation meandered from one topic to another. Trip swirled his drink, deliberating.

'Hypothetical question, cap.' He finished the whisky. 'Let's say, hypothetically, there's someone who works on a ship, y'know, hypothetically, and this person has, without really meaning to, well, hypothetically, kind of got involved with a friend-slash-colleague and now this person is not quite sure what to do. Hypothetically.'

'That's a lot of hypotheticals.' Jon rubbed Porthos' belly and considered his glass. 'I'm not sure what advice I can give. There are a lot of variables. And this _is_ hypothetical?'

'Oh, yeah.' Trip insisted. 'One hundred percent hypothetical.'

 

* * *

 

They hadn't kissed since that day in Engineering, and Malcolm had decided that was it. One ill-advised bed tumble, and one frankly irresponsible make out session where _anyone could have seen them_. And that was it.

So when Malcolm found himself fascinated by Trip's hands and the way he ran his thumb over his lips when stuck at a problem, he tried to push the thoughts away. When Trip would touch him – a nudge on the shoulder, a tap on the arm – he told himself to not dwell on it. And when he caught Trip looking, and glancing away every time Malcolm caught his eye, he told himself he was imagining things. This worked, for the most part.

It was evening, a week later. The entire day had been a clusterfuck: the weapons going haywire, the warp core nearly buckling under pressure. Everyone with any technical knowledge had been working for the last seventeen hours. Malcolm had finally got the firing array under control when he heard the doors open.

'Work was hell. Wanna blow off some steam?' Trip leaned against the door, a dirty rag thrown over his shoulder. Despite the stubble and the dirt on his face, he still wore that old-school charm that Malcolm had always envied.

'A beer?'

'I was thinking more like exercise.' Trip pushed his hair out of his face, transferring grime from his hand to his curiously blonde hair. 'Throw some hoops. The rec room's free.'

'I've never “thrown a hoop” in my life.' Still, Malcolm found himself willing to abandon his plans of an early night with a pulp novel. Basketball involved touching, right? He wiped his hands on his overalls as he stood.

'You've never played basketball? I know you're British, but come on, old chum.'

'Your impression of me is just horrid.' They walked down the corridor, shoulders almost touching.

'Must be because I haven't talked to you a lot lately.' The chief engineer hesitated, considering his words. Whatever he had intended to say, he changed his mind. 'Anyway, basketball's easy. Just get the ball in the hoop.'

'I _never_ would have guessed!' Trip made a jab in Malcolm's direction but he stepped out of his reach.

In the rec room, Trip picked up a basketball and threw it at him. Malcolm caught it. Basketball was easy, but Trip had experience and height on him, dunking the ball into the hoop twice for each of Malcolm's attempts. The game soothed his body, helping him move from rigid to alive with activity – and being close to Trip made his body warm.

He wasn't sure exactly what happened, if it was an accident or if it was intentional, but when Trip attempted to steal the ball, he came up from behind and slapped the ball out of his hands and before Malcolm could stop it, the ball flew away and they came tumbling to the ground together. Trip fell hard onto Malcolm, their noses almost touching.

'Hey,' Trip's voice was a low growl, that infuriating grin playing on his face, and Malcolm tried to tell himself that in less than a second, the engineer would get off him, find the ball again and they would keep playing. Like colleagues-slash-friends-and-nothing-more would. But Trip didn't move, and Malcolm met his gaze, distracted by his mouth and by the bead of sweat tracking a path down his forehead.

Later, Malcolm told himself it was because he had been awake for almost a full day, because he was weak with fatigue, but at the time, he (for once) didn't tell himself anything at all. He lifted his head that inch or two that separated their faces, finding Trip's mouth and the moan that was hiding there. Then, eyes close, the world faded until there was nothing but Trip's mouth on his mouth, Trip's body pressed against his body, Trip's hand nestled in his hair. Malcolm couldn't hear the vibrations of the warp engines, but he felt the beating of his heart and of Trip's, just a little out of sync. There was nothing but Trip.

Then he did hear something: the bouncing of a ball dropped and a voice, loud in surprise.

'The _hell_?' Malcolm tore his face away from Trip and standing in the doorway to the rec room was Travis Mayweather, eyes wide, hands still held out in front of him, a soccer ball bouncing on the ground. He took a couple of steps back as Malcolm pushed Trip off him. 'I – uh – I should go.'

Travis turned on his heels and Malcolm got up to follow him. Trip shouted something after him, still on the floor, but Malcolm's blood was pounding in his ears (shame, embarrassment, worry, fear) and he couldn't hear the words.

Travis yelped when Malcolm caught up with him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him to a stop. The silence hung between them.

'So...' Travis shifted from one foot to another, arms crossed and eyes anywhere but Malcolm's face.

'It's not what you think.' Malcolm said. Travis raised his eyebrows. Not even he would fall for that one. 'It's a _little_ like what you think but it's not, um, a thing or anything.'

'It sure looked like a thing to me. He was all – uh – nevermind, I don't wanna think about it. All I wanted was to play some soccer.' Travis dug his hands deep in the pockets of his overalls, glancing over at Malcolm. 'Isn't it weird? He's your boss.'

'It's not – I wasn't thinking of that. Hell, I wasn't thinking at all. It's not going to happen again.  I'd appreciate if you didn't tell anyone, ensign.'

The corner of Travis' mouth curled, and Malcolm knew it was a smile of disappointment, not amusement. His eyes were sad. He shouldn't have called him by his rank.

'Of course I won't, Malcolm.' Disappointment, definitely. 'I'm going. I just... I wish you'd have told me. I thought we were friends.' He turned to leave. 'He's nice to you, right?'

'Of course, yes, but it's not like that. We're not–' Malcolm fell silent, because he didn't know how to finish the sentence, and he didn't know _what_ they were. Where did kissing three times and thinking about him constantly put their relationship?

'Sure.' Travis smiled a little now. 'Anyway. He's gotta be nice to you, boss.' He waved, a small and hesitant gesture, and left.

Malcolm stayed in the corridor, uncertain whether to return to the rec room, whether he was brave enough to face Trip, who'd want to _talk_ , or if he should go back to his quarters and give it up.

He dithered, but after a moment, he left. He went to his quarters.

 

* * *

 

Malcolm was sitting cross-legged in the uncomfortable armchair in his quarters, reading Ford Maddox Ford. His temporary bunkmate Ragnar, a Scandinavian xenobiologist who spent his free time researching interspecies fish breeding, was humming something as he filed through his research. Five days ago, the oxygen recyclers on the lower crew decks had started malfunctioning, and the crew quarters on several decks had to be evacuated. After drawing straws, Malcolm had ended up with Ragnar. All things considered, it wasn't that bad. Apparently Hoshi's new roommate snored.

 _Hey._ A message from Trip. Malcolm dismissed it and kept on reading. _Hey._ Another one. _Don't ignore me Malcolm. Please._

Malcolm put aside his PADD, not sure what he should say – if he should say anything. It had become complicated, and he didn't like complicated. Not with people. With mathematics, yes. With battle strategies, yes. But with Trip (no, he told himself, commander Tucker), no.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell chimed. Ragnar rapped the wall, his sign that it was up to Malcolm to open the door.

'Hey.' Malcolm was not surprised to see Trip on the other side of the door, but he wondered why, after the day they'd had, he was still wearing his uniform, and a fresh one at that, without any of the grease stains from earlier that day. He had even shaved, and looked surprisingly awake considering the heavy bags under his eyes.

'What can I do for you, Commander?' Tucker leaned against the doorframe, a hand splayed across the door sensor to keep it open.

'I've some engineering issues I'd like a hand with, Malcolm.' He could feel Ragnar staring at them from his top bunk. He felt uncomfortable wearing off-duty clothes, at odds with how put-together Trip looked. (Handsome, even, the dark blue of the uniform making his skin glow, his blue eyes sparkle. No. No. No.)

'It's been a long day, Trip, and I think we both know I'm not good for much this late. Can't someone on duty help you?'

'You're all tuckered out?' The smirk rested in the corners of his mouth like a kiss. Malcolm looked away. 'Gimme five minutes. Humour me. Then I'll leave you alone.'

Trip touched his shoulder, and Malcolm held his breath as he followed him into the hall.

'I assume there isn't an engineering issue?' Malcolm leaned against a bulkhead.

'Of course there isn't, but I couldn't figure out any other way to get you to talk to me,' Trip said, a hand in his hair. 'seeing as you're avoiding me. Don't like it.'

'I'm not avoiding you.' Malcolm tried to keep his voice steady as Trip moved closer, pushing his knee between Malcolm's, aligning their bodies. 'Commander.' The title, he hoped, was a warning.

'You want me to stop?' Trip's voice, husky and resonant in his ear. 'Because that's my problem: not being able to figure out what _you_ want, Mal. If you would only tell me. Is that asking too much?' Trip planted a hand on the wall beside them, a few inches away from Malcolm's hip, both too close and too far.

'We're breaking Starfleet regulations.'

'Don't give a fuck.' Malcolm had never heard Trip swear, not like this, growling and irreverent.

'I'm not worth it.' He said this with conviction, his fingers itching to reach out and touch. Trip's calloused fingertips were warm on his face, tipping his chin upward to face him.

'You really think that, don't you?' Malcolm didn't reply, arms folded over his chest. All at once, Trip's hand dropped (and Malcolm's skin was burning where his fingers had been) and he took a step back. His posture and his voice changed – collegial, casual. 'So, like I was saying, if we were to reroute the power from Engineering to E deck – good evening, crewman, how are you?'

The crewman, a woman whose name Malcolm couldn't quite remember, nodded at them as she passed. Trip bounced on the balls of his feet as she turned the bend, waiting. He cocked his head, listening for footsteps, before he moved closer again, again tipping Malcolm's face up. He licked his lips but didn't lean in to kiss him.

'What if it ends badly?'

'Ends badly? It hasn't even begun, Malcolm.' Now Trip kissed him, tenderly and softly. A part of him, the sensible and responsible part of him, said he shouldn't return these kisses, that his hands shouldn't come to rest on Trip's shoulders. He didn't listen. Trip kissed him like there was nothing else in this world he would rather do. When he pulled away, his eyes were dark and his lips were pink. 'See? We're just starting.'

'I don't want to be gossip,' Malcolm said, licking his lips. Talking was good, talking was important, but he didn't want to talk. What he really wanted was to kiss Trip again. But kissing him here, in the middle of a corridor, was not wise. It was strange how he didn't really care. 'I don't want people to know. It's not – it's not because I'm ashamed. It's just no one's business.'

Trip bowed his head, leaning his forehead against Malcolm's.

'Then it'll be no one's business.'

'Promise?'

'Promise.'

 

* * *

 

When he had signed onto _Enterprise_ , Trip had read the section titled _Routine_ _Medical Check-Ups_ , where it had been spelled out that each crew member was to undergo a routine medical examination once every ten weeks, ensuring that long-term travel at higher warp speeds would not cause any permanent issues for human physiology. At the time, he had not expected for the strict schedule to be adhered to. This was before he met Phlox. If he did not show up to an apartment, Phlox would barrage him with messages and reminders on the 71st day.

'All your tests look normal. Well done, Commander. You're healthy despite getting in all that trouble of yours.' Because Phlox was Phlox, he meant nothing by the comment. 'Now, the questionnaire.'

The questionnaire was the worst part of the exam – a long list of questions, the majority requiring a _no_ answer but enough questions peppered throughout the list that needed _yes_ that Trip actually had to pay attention. An idea on how to make the power distribution more effective percolated in his mind, but he knew that the doctor would definitely bark at him if he reached over for his engineering notebook. Trip answered Phlox's questions, eyeing his notebook, trying to hold onto the thought.

'Have you had any unexplained rashes or allergic reactions?'

'No.'

'Is your appetite unchanged?'

'Yes.' He hadn't eaten today yet, and Trip started thinking of breakfast: biscuits and gravy. Real biscuits, not the cookies Malcolm insisted were biscuits. Maybe some bacon, too.

'Commander?' He snapped back to attention. 'Any sexual contact?'

A second passed. Two.

'Uh, yes.' No one succeeded lying to Phlox, and Trip wasn't going to try. Phlox raised an eyebrow.

'Is this, hm, another marble game incident? Do I need to be concerned about installing a crib in your quarters, Commander?'

'No, you don't.' When would people allow him to live that down? 'It's not an alien. There's not any risk of anyone getting pregnant.'

Phlox had inclined his head and was watching him intently. If it wasn't for the spots and his generally alien face, he would have made a good cowboy movie doctor. Trip could imagine a pinces-nez clipped onto his nose and his strangely blue eyes peering over them. Phlox sighed and tapped his PADD.

'Did you use protection?'

'...no.' The first time they had been stupid enough to not think about it, and after that – the times of the last few weeks, sometimes soft and slow and others quick and frantic, they hadn't bothered, after Malcolm mentioned that he was really, really, allergic to latex. They had reasoned, with arguments they both knew didn't really hold water, that any potential damage was already done.

'Commander!' Phlox's Pyrithian bat woke from the volume of his voice, flapping noisily around his cage. 'That is very irresponsible. I don't want an epidemic on my hands. How would that look in my reports to Starfleet command?'

'Look, doc, it's _one_ person. And I'm not planning on, y'know, doing it with anyone else any time soon.'

'So would you say you and this person are... to use the human vernacular, dating?'

'I mean, I guess?' Trip had tried to have that talk with Malcolm several times, but each time he had managed to weasel out of the discussion, arguing that now was not the time, could they maybe do that later, would he shut up and kiss him? 'Neither of us are sleeping with anyone else.'

That was another thing they hadn't discussed, but Trip had assumed was agreed. He couldn't imagine Malcolm sleeping with someone else. Who would it be – T'Pol? The idea was laughable!

'Still...' Phlox's frown was fatherly and deep, reminding Trip of his dad's when he chided Trip for his engineering experiments. Except Charles Tucker II didn't refer them as experiments. He called them hijinks. 'You should take these.' The Denobulan held the bag of condoms like one would hold a bag of candy, offering a sample. 'There are all sorts of flavours. I can't say I understand why you want chocolate flavour, but if you do, there's plenty.'

Trip accepted the bag and looked at the small plastic envelopes. He went through them, placing them in two piles – one for the ones without latex, one for the ones with. The usable pile was much smaller than the one he returned to the bag and handed back to Phlox. Phlox glanced at the condoms he reluctantly pocketed.

'No chocolate ones?' Trip didn't bother responding. 'Does the captain know?'

'I thought we had doctor-patient confidentiality here?' Then again, Phlox's understanding of that confidentiality was a little warped – as he proved when he revealed Malcolm's allergy injections without much probing at all from Hoshi.

'Of course, but he is also your friend. You have not confided in him who your paramour is?'

'Um, no.'

'One more question, Commander: this relation of yours – might it cause any conflicts of interest? That would be captain Archer's question, wouldn't it? Is it someone under your command?'

'No, it's not.' Technically, no.

Phlox grinned.

'Alright then, Commander. You're cleared. I'll be running some extra tests on your bloodwork, just to be safe. Take care of yourself, don't forget to sleep, and do be sensible.' Phlox stepped back and waited until Trip had dressed again and was halfway across sickbay before he added one more comment: 'oh, and Commander? Say hello to mister Reed from me.'

The waggle of the alien's eyebrows showed he knew exactly what he was talking about.

 

* * *

 

Trip joined Malcolm at his table in the mess hall, carrying an overflowing tray in one hand and a ridiculously large cup of coffee in the other.

'Lieutenant,' he said by way of greeting. _Loo-ten-ant_.

'Commander.' Malcolm moved his glass of water to clear space for the man's food. He enjoyed the pretence they had in public, that they were only friends and that they were not rapidly getting intimately familiar with the other's body. Every time he saw Trip, his stomach tightened and he felt all his sense drain out of him. 'How are you today?'

'Not too shabby, Malcolm.' He took a large bite of meatloaf before continuing. 'Have you had your medical yet?'

'No – I've got mine this afternoon. Why?'

Trip looked at Malcolm, and he looked at his meatloaf, and he looked off in the distance, and he looked anywhere he might find a way out of having to tell Malcom this. He should have waited until they were alone, until later tonight. In the mess hall, any outburst of panic would be too obvious. Although, perhaps, doing this in public, in half-hushed tones, would force Malcolm to stay calm. Trip had promised that no one would find out, but then again, what was he supposed to do – lie to Phlox? That wasn't going to end well.

'Remember the questionnaire we always get?' At Malcolm's nod, he continued. 'Remember the last question? The one, uh, about sexual contact?'

'Yes.' Trip couldn't tell what that simple _yes_ meant, if it was a warning of frustration or a mere statement of fact.

'I didn't – uh – I didn't lie. And I think Phlox figured it out.'

'Did he now?' Malcolm lifted a hand in greeting to a crewman who passed them, then he looked at Trip over his glass of water. 'Why?'

'Well, he, uhh, he offered me some, um, _condoms_.' Trip whispered the last word, leaning closer to make sure it didn't travel. Malcolm opened his mouth – probably to protest that he couldn't use those them anyway so what was the huge worry – but Trip kept talking. 'I only took the non-latex ones. And, uh... He told me to say hi. To you.'

'I see.' Malcolm frowned. 'I was not planning on lying to him, so I guess it's just as well. Is he going to tell the captain?'

'Doctor-patient confidentiality.'

'He _did_ tell Hoshi about my allergies.'

'This is true.' Trip conceded. 'But I think we can trust him on this one. No one's going to get you a boyfriend for Christmas.'

'Boyfriend?' Malcolm said after a moment's paused.

'If you wanna.' Trip felt his heart in his throat and his cheeks blush from Malcolm's stare. His nervousness faded when Malcolm gave him a small, shy smile.

'That would be nice,' he said.

 

* * *

 

Hoshi was bored and hot. There was something wrong with the heating system and it was warmer than São Paulo in February. She, and most of the bridge crew, had tied their jumpsuit tops around their waist, working in undershirts and hoping there wouldn't be any reason to turn the view screen on. The only person still dressed anywhere close to regulations was Malcolm, his hair tangled with sweat but his uniform zipper only part-way down. Hoshi had nothing to do. She had run and rerun the translation matrix improvements half a dozen times before she piped up, asking if anyone needed a hand.

'I've got some numbers you could crunch. I'll send them over.' Malcolm smiled at her across the bridge, grateful for the help. Or maybe he was melting from the heat. Why wouldn't he fold down his uniform? Hoshi suspected it was some sense of misguided propriety, that an officer should never put comfort over appearances.

She ran the numbers – a weapons yield analysis – and loaded the results onto an information disk. It was a couple of minutes before her scheduled lunch, and she felt she had to move before her uniform and chair melted into one, so she wandered over to Malcolm's station.

'Here you go,' she said. When he glanced up at her, she noticed something – a faint bruise on the side of his neck. Her first thought was that it was from one of Malcolm's ludicrously intense workouts, but the placement and size was all wrong.

Someone had given Lieutenant Malcolm Reed a hickey.

'Thank you, Hoshi. Anything else I can do for you?'

'Nope, no, we're all good.' She felt herself flush in embarrassment. 'Travis, are you scheduled for lunch?'

'You betcha.' Travis wiped his face on his undershirt, giving the entire bridge a view of his muscled stomach, and joined her in the turbo lift. 'What's up? You seem agitated.'

The door shut and they dropped down the decks.

'You're, uh, pretty good friends with Malcolm, right?'

'As much as anyone's friends with him, I think. I like him.'

'Do you, um –' she paused when a group of crewmen passed them, 'is he seeing someone?'

The pause lasted a split second too long.

'Um, Hoshi, y'know,' he said carefully, not looking at her.

'Oh god, is it you?'

'What, no! It's not me.' Hoshi saw his ears redden and looped her arm in his.

'Come on, you can tell me. Ensign confidentiality.'

'I really don't think I should say.'

'Come _on_ ,' she whined, propping her head on his shoulder, on her tiptoes to reach. They had stalled around the corner of from the mess hall.

Travis hesitated. And he hesitated. Finally, he spoke.

'It's Trip.'

Hoshi's yelp of delight could be heard two decks down and three decks up.

 

* * *

 

'You know, you caused me hell today,' said Malcolm.

'How so?' Trip hugged him closer, curling his hair with a lazy finger.

'Your stupid hickeys forced me to keep my uniform on during those hellish hours of heat. Why did it take you so long to fix it? And, further to the point, hickeys? What are you, thirteen?'

Malcolm flipped over, chest against chest with Trip now. Trip nipped on his lip, drawing out one slow kiss after another. He hummed into the kiss, content and sleepy.

'So did anyone see them?' Trip traced his fingers along the bruises along Malcolm's collarbone.

'No, I kept my uniform on. No one saw.'

Malcolm allowed Trip to push him flat onto the bed, and he allowed the trail of kisses down his neck, each kiss trailing over one of his bruises from kissing.

'So no one found out,' Trip mumbled against his skin.

'No one found out,' Malcolm agreed and pulled him up for a kiss.

 

* * *

 

Porthos was asleep in Trip’s lap, drooling on his knee. The whiskey was from Florida, but it had the burn of Kentucky. They watched a game of water polo, Archer explaining the moves and strategies, Trip pretending to care. During the breaks, where the commentators debated whether a move was a foul or maybe it was a legal move (as of some obscure rule change of 2142), they talked about work. Trip told him about the engines, how beautifully they sang as they flew through space and how his marvellous engineers kept them in tip-top condition. Archer listened and nodded and smiled. When the game was over, Jon topped up their drinks and stared into his glass.

‘Trip.’ He pursed his lips, taking the time to find the words. ‘Remember that conversation we had, a few months ago? The hypothetical one?’

Trip was taken aback, and Porthos murmured in displeasure as he sat up straighter in surprise.

‘What about it?’ He still hadn’t told Jon about Malcolm, and he knew that, one day soon, he would have to. An affair was one thing, _feelings_ were another. And, oh God, did Trip Tucker have a lot of feelings about Malcolm Reed.

‘I know I’m your captain, and I know you don’t have to tell me things.’ Jon swirled his whiskey and took another swig. ‘But we’re also friends, so I wanted to ask. How did it go? I mean – hypothetically?’

‘Hypothetically,’ Trip agreed, ‘hypothetically it couldn’t be going better.’

Jonathan Archer smiled and raised his glass.

‘I’m glad to hear that. Cheers to you both.’

They drank in honour of friendship, of Malcolm, of being in love, and of no one else finding out.


End file.
